I Do Not Want to Hurt You
by SproulerMonster
Summary: Russia desperately wants to have a friend. But he always seems to hurt those who try to be his. When America accepts his dinner invitation, he is ecstatic. Will he have a friend? A lover? Or will he hurt yet another innocent?
1. Chapter 1

America let out a yawn, and stretched his arms out behind him as the other nations filed out of the room in which the World Conference was being held. He closed his eyes and layed back in his chair, trying to clear his mind. These conferences were so long, and so very dull. Everyone, especially that dumb Britain thought his ideas were stupid. He was the hero, goddammit! Why couldn't they just listen to him?

"Um, Amerika?" he heard an accented voice in front of him. He opened a single blue eye to look at who had addressed him. A violet-eyed man with pale skin and silvery hair sat atop the desk in front of him, legs crossed.

Alfred's eyes flew open, and he almost fell from his chair. "R-Russia! What the hell do you think you're doing, you fucking stupid commie! Get the hell down from that desk!" The American stood up as Ivan followed suit, stepping down from the desk in his brown, knee high boots, straitening his long, tan coat. "What do you want, Russia?" asked America angrily, annoyed that he had to look up to meet the taller man's scary eyes.

"I was wondering, Amerika, if you had dinner plans? I do not, and if you're not busy, it is always more enjoyable to dine with friends, da? And I am not technically communist anymore, Amerika."

_Was that a dinner invitation?_ thought America. Well, he didn't have any plans, but no company sounded preferable to spending an evening with this creepy mountain of a man. The country was just scary! And he always carried that pipe with him... But what if he said he was busy, and Russia found out he'd been avoiding him? He could hear, in the back of his mind, the Russian's chant, "kolkolkolkolkol..." But he was America! The hero! He wasn't afraid of anything!

Ivan stood, looking down at the American. Why was he taking so long to answer? Surely he knew whether or not he had plans this evening. Maybe America didn't want to spend the evening with him. The Russian's tiny smile wavered, just as Alfred's mouth finally opened with his reply.

"S-sure, Russia. I'd love to have dinner with you." He let out a nervous laugh, and pushed Texas back up the bridge of his nose, as they had been slipping off. Russia's innocent, childlike smile returned once more, and he stepped forward to embrace the shorter, blond man, lifting him a few inches off the ground. America stiffened in his arms, afraid of being suffocated.

"Oh, thank you, Amerika. I had hoped I would not be spending another evening alone."

"Yeah," said America uncertainly, "well, come on then, I'm starved!" The thought of delicious, juicy hamburgers filled his mind and he licked his lips. "I know a couple of great places nearby." He turned to leave the conference room.

"Nyet. None of your fast food hamburger places, I think. Something with a bit more class, da?" He walked past the American, knowing he would follow. "I think Italian would be suitable. Is that agreeable?"

Alfred did follow him, albeit grudgingly. Not only did he have to spend the evening with this monster, but he had no choice in where they were eating? "Sure, Italian sounds good." The pair exited the hotel together in silence. America was nervous, and Russia was exceptionally happy. Nobody usually agreed to spending more time with him than they had to. Maybe, just maybe he could find a friend in this American.

He just hoped he didn't hurt him like he did the others.


	2. Chapter 2

Russia let the way down the crowded streets. People gave him a wide berth. Whether this was due to his height, his scary purple eyes, or to the pipe he carried with him, Alfred didn't care. All he knew was that if he followed close behind Ivan, there was no need to doge to and fro to avoid the other pedestrians.

"Say, Russia, do you know where we're going?" asked the American, suddenly realizing that he was lost, with no idea of how to get back. He sure as hell didn't want to be stuck wandering the streets trying to get back to the hotel all night with the man in front of him.

"Of course, Amerika, don't worry. We'll be there in less than five minutes. I saw this restaurant yesterday, and it looked agreeable." The big man kept walking, taking huge, powerful strides as he went, his too-long scarf flapping out behind him. America followed him, almost jogging to keep up, as he tried to re-orientate himself. Had they take two lefts, or three? Did they turn right yet?

Just as he was starting to think that Russia may be trying to get them lost on purpose, and capture America, Ivan stopped in front of him, causing Alfred to crash into the Russian's broad back. Alfred fell backwards, hard, probably bruising his tailbone. Russia looked back, innocently, looking genuinely sorry. He looked almost, vulnerable. Cute, even.

_Snap out of it, Alfred_, the American thought to himself. "You goddamn communist bastard! Will you watch what the fuck you're doing? Who just stops like that without warning a guy first? Shit.." He looked at his hand, which he had tried to use to break his fall. It was scratched to hell, and bleeding.

Ivan offered his hand to help Alfred up. "I'm sorry, Amerika, I didn't mean to knock you over. Can you forgive me?"

"Yeah," muttered America, as he unwillingly took the Russian's hand to help himself up off the ground. He looked up at the building Russia had stopped in front of. It was an Italian restaurant as promised, named _Il Piatto di Pasta. _There was a very classy feel about it, and it had fancy outdoors tables to eat at. "This place looks really nice, Russia."

"Let's go inside then, da? You need to clean your hand, so it doesn't get infected. Then we'll come sit outside, it's such a nice night out." It was nice, warm, but not too humid. _Why is Russia worried about my hand, though? He's always talking about how he wants to see other people in pain... And this is me in pain. Is he bipolar? _

"You can just wait out here, I can wash my hand by myself. And get me a glass of wine, okay? Whatever you choose will be fine." With that, America marched inside, to the bathroom, perhaps a little faster than was necessary. Alfred washed his hands under the cool water, and picked the tiny pieces of gravel out. When he was done, he dried his hands on the paper towel that was set out.

As he was leaving, he caught sight of himself in a mirror. He checked himself over, making sure he was presentable. Wait, why did he care? It was just Russia.

When the American got back, Ivan was sitting, drinking his vodka, straight from the bottle. A bottle of red wine was also sitting at the table, as well as a glass. Without bothering to read the label, Alfred poured himself a glass. He was going to need it to deal with the night he has set before him.

Ivan and Alfred met eyes for a moment and America quickly looked away. Those strange, purple eyes. He had to spend all evening with them. How was he going to survive?

The Russian and the American sat across from each other, neither meeting each others' gaze, pretending to be engrossed in their menus. It was going to be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time their food had come – two orders of fettuccine alfredo – Ivan had already downed his first bottle of vodka, and was opening his second. Alfred's wine lay, barely touched, in front of his plate. The awkward silence was painful to America, though the Russian didn't seem to be affected at all. He just stared at Alfred over the top of his bottle as he drank ounce after ounce.

Alfred grabbed his fork, and busied himself with wrapping the noodles around it, carefully, perfectly, so as to distract himself from having to meed the creepy purple gaze. However, he couldn't keep himself from glancing up every once in a while, to see Ivan, staring at him. And he never looked away. He wasn't embarrassed to be caught staring at the other man. What was wrong with this guy?

He couldn't stand the silence. He had to say something. "So, Russia, are you enjoying your dinner?

The silver-haired man smiled. "Da. Very much, thank you. Even though it is such a plain dish, pasta has always been one of my favourite things to eat."

"Really?" asked Alfred, surprised that he could find anything, even something as small as this, that he had in common with Russia. "Me too! I don't find it bland at all, it's great! Though, maybe not as good as hamburgers.. Mmmmm..."

"Nyet, your hamburgers are not so tasty. All that grease... If you wish, though, I could make you some Russian foods, sometime. Vareniki, piroshki, dumplings with smetana and onion, stroganoff-"

"Hey, I've had that one! Stroganoff! It's, like, beef and noodles, with cheese, right?"

Ivan smiled, and almost looked like he was going to laugh. "Well, yes, that is one way to do it... If you want a meal almost identical to a hamburger. But there are many other ways to prepare a stroganoff, so that it almost becomes multiple dishes. You should try them some time, Amerika. You would enjoy it."

Those purple eyes never left Alfred's face, the whole time Russia spoke. He surveyed him with a certain interest. It made the American squirm in his chair. "Say, Amerika, do you enjoy poetry?"

America have the Russian an almost questioning gaze. "Well, yes, I do enjoy some poetry. Why do you ask?"

Russia ignored Alfred's question. "Whose poetry do you like to read?"

Slightly annoyed, Alfred answered. "Well, I like Robert Frost, and Shel Silverstein... Edger Allen Poe, and E.E. Cummings... Emily Dickensen as well..."

"Only Amerikan poets?" asked Russia, dissappointed. "Nothing from the Chinese, Russians, or even the British? Just Amerikans?

"Oh, yeah, well," began Alfred, embarrassed now. What was he supposed to say now? He was going to sound either dumb or ignorant no matter how he responded. "I haven't really, you know, looked into any of the other nations poets... Sorry"

Russia sighed. "Do not be sorry, moi tupye Amerikanskie," Russia giggled. "If you would like, when we get back to the hotel, I have brought a book on Russian poetry. It is a place to start. Russian poetry is especially famous for its romantic poetry."

Relieved he had an escape, Alfred replied, "Oh, thanks, Russia, that actually sounds great! I would love to read some of your country's poetry. I'm sure it's beautiful."Alfred could almost swear he had seen a softening in the Russian's purple gaze. But of course, he was just seeing things. If this was any country but Russia, he would have believed it. But this nation was insane.

The rest of the meal was completed in silence, though it wasn't as uncomfortable as before. Alfred felt as though he could almost see a real person in Ivan. He wasn't solely the scary country with a pipe anymore. He was.. well, he didn't know what he was. But he sure as hell preferred it to what he was before.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the short chapter! I only have a little bit of time on the computer, this is what I've got!

I promise a longer chapter next time!

Thank you to all the followers I've amassed in the short time I've been writing.

When the meal came, Russia took the check, refusing to let Alfred see it.

"Oh, come on, Russia, let me pay for my meal, will ya? I drank a whole bottle of wine, it cam't have been cheap."

"Nyet. I invited you to dinner, this is my treat. Would you invite someone to your house for dinner, then ask them to pay for their dinner? I hope not. I invited you, and I'm paying. If you really want to repay me, you can agree to come out with me tomorrow night... I planned on going to a Russian bar I saw... You can see the fun part of the Russian culture. Getting drunk on vodka, and dancing until we drop. You'll enjoy it. You will come, da?"

This time around, the answer came quicker. "Yeah, sure, Russia. Maybe I'll even teach you some new dance moves, eh?"

The Russian smiled contentedly, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he said, " Thank you, Amerika. This means much to me."

Ivan led a lost America back to the hotel, and up to his room. "Come in, Alfred, for just a moment, while I find the book."

_Did he just call me Alfred? _thought America. _Does that mean I should call him Ivan? _Bemused, the American followed Russia into his hotel room. The room was pristine, all his belongings organized. Yet, a "Do not disturb" sign hung from his door handle. No maid had been here today. This was completely opposite to Alfred's room. He had only been in his room for an hour minutes today, during the lunch break, and it was already a total disaster area.

"Just one moment," called Russia from the corner of the room. "I think I left it here.. da. Here it is." He came back, and handed the book to America. America didn't bother to look at the cover.

"Thank you, Rus- er Ivan. So, I'll see you tomorrow night, then? Where should I meet you?"

"Oh, I'll come up to your room and get you."

"No, no, don't bother! I'm nine floors above you, don't go to the trouble!"

Nyet, it is no trouble at all. I will come get you, at perhaps nine thirty. I will see you tomorrow, moĭ Amerikanskiĭ." Ivan ushered Alfred out, and went to shower. He emerged, eight minutes later feeling refreshed. Donning his sweatpants and ever-present scarf, he went to the balcony. He leaned over the ledge, looking out over the broad city, the lights twinkling back up at him. Perhaps, just perhaps he had found someone he wouldn't hurt.

_And he is such a wonderful man. Just look how easily he agreed to try a taste of my culture._

_ But you don't deserve him. Look a how many people you've heard. You can't have friends, you can't do anything good._

_ You're wrong, _he told the voice. _Alfred won't let me hurt him. And I won't try_

_ No, you're the one who's wrong. You were looking at his face all evening, his beautiful face, just thinking about how much nicer it would look if you took your pipe to it. How perfect his legs would be, if you could break them. You don't need friends. You don't need him. You need to break, to kill, to see the lovely spray of blood... _The voice faded into the background.

"No!" Ivan screamed into the darkness. "No, I won't hurt him! Tears streamed down his face, falling to the pavement below.


	5. Chapter 5

Throughout the World Conference meeting the next day, America kept stealing glances at Russia. The man remained quiet most of the day, and never even glanced at Alfred. He acted as though he had never even met the American._ Weirdo, _thought America.

After the day was over, Alfred left the room, and tried to find Russia, to make sure their plans were still on. He didn't want to get dressed up for nothing, after all. But the country was nowhere to be seen. _How did he get out of here so fast? _Regardless, America went up to his room, grabbed his wallet, and went to the closest McDonald's he could find.

He ordered four hamburgers, and sat in a corner to eat them by himself. He watched the other people in the restaurant, but his eyes kept being drawn to a couple across the room. He could only see the back of the boy's head, but he could see the girl's face. She looked at him with such devotion, it almost made Alfred jealous. He wished he had someone to look at him like that, like they would never leave him.

Shaking himself, Alfred finished his last hamburger, and stood to leave. As he passed the couple, from the other side of the glass, he noticed the girl was crying. The boy had an indifferent look in his eye.

When he arrived back at the hotel, around seven o'clock, America went up to his room, to watch TV for a bit. At about eight thirty, he started getting ready. He showered, shaved, combed and styled his hair until he had achieved his distinctive hairstyle (which Canada had stolen, the little bastard). Then he went to his bag, to look for something to wear.

He had never been to a Russian bar, and he didn't know how he was supposed to dress. Finally, he settled on a black collared shirt over his black tank top, paired with a pair of dark jeans. Streetwear, slightly dressed up. When he finished, is was nine fifteen. He had fifteen minutes left to kill, so he picked up the book of Russian poetry, so as to not look like he had ignored it on purpose. He had just forgotten, was all.

He flipped open to the first poem. Luckily, it was all translated into English. It was called _A Magic Moment I Remember, _and was written by A. S. Pushkin

A magic moment I remember:  
>I raised my eyes and you were there,<br>A fleeting vision, the quintessence  
>Of all that`s beautiful and rare.<p>

I prey to mute despair and anguish,  
>To vain pursuits the world esteems,<br>Long did I near your soothing accents,  
>Long did your features haunt my dreams.<p>

Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered  
>The reveries that once were mine<br>And I forgot your soothing accents,  
>Your features gracefully divine.<p>

In dark days of enforced retirement  
>I gazed upon grey skies above<br>With no ideals to inspire me,  
>No one to cry for, live for, love.<p>

Then came a moment of renaissance,  
>I looked up - you again are there,<br>A fleeting vision, the quintessence  
>Of all that's beautiful and rare.<p>

As Alfred was reading it through, the second time, there came a knock on his door. He glanced at his watch. Nine twenty three. Ivan was seven minutes early.

When America answered the door, however, it was not the tall Russian he had expected, but a rather drunk and dishevelled-looking England.

"Well, finally!" shouted Arthur. "How come you didn't come out with me n' France n'.. all the other guys?"

Annoyed, America retorted, "Arthur, go away. You were probably drinking alone, again. You're just too drunk to remember. I don't have the time to deal with you tonight. Go bother China."

"Now wait here, you pompous American, what're you..." He paused, and hiccoughed, looking down. "Why're you all dressed all fancy, like? You going somewhere? I saw you leaving yesterday with that bastard Rus-" America slammed the door. "Fine! Whatever, I'll go find France! Fraaaaance! Where are you, you .. French bastard!" England's voice faded as he stumbled down the hall in search of France.

Alfred turned around, and leaned against the door. He slid down, slowly. _No, no, no, no, no. Nobody can know I'm with Russia. Nobody can think that. No..._

The American forced himself up, and went to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, to cool down, and dried his face. He couldn't let other people stop him. He had made the commitment to go out with Russia, and god damn it, he was going to! _Knock knock, _came the sound from the door. Alfred walked to it, and opened it, to find Russia, looking like he was on the verge of tears.


	6. Chapter 6

Russia's face looked horrible, like he had been crying for hours beforehand, and was about to start up again.

"Rus-Ivan! What's wrong? Are you okay?" asked Alfred worriedly. Russia nodded his head, lips trembling.

"Da, Alfred, I will be fine. I came to tell you, though, that I cannot go out with you tonight" The Russian hiccoughed on the last word, almost crying again. He ducked his head for a moment, then looked back up at America. "I'm sorry, but I just can't do this. I really did wish to have your company tonight, but it appears I will not be able to be with anybody. I'm sorry"

Alfred blinked a few times, confused. "Why? What happened, Ivan? If you want to… Here, just come in," he said, ushering the huge Russian inside.

"Nyet, nyet, Amerika, I cannot. I have to go."

"Please."

Ivan's eyes widened when he heard the American's begging voice. He sounded so weak. _So? You could make it weaker. Go in. Hurt him._ Russia stumbled into the room, and Alfred led him over to the bed, to sit down. "Can I get you anything? I could make tea…"

Sniffling, Russia answered, "Da, that would be lovely, Alfred. Thank you."

As the blonde man went to the kitchenette to begin making tea, Ivan took the chance to look around the room. Clothes were spread out all over, with no organization whatsoever. The bed he was sitting on remained unmade, and junk food wrappers were laid out all around the garbage can, though few had actually made it into the basket.

Alfred came back, carrying two steaming mugs of Earl Grey tea. He handed one to Russia, and sat next to him on the bed. For a moment, he thought about placing a hand on Russia's shoulder, but decided against it.

"S-so, um, Ivan, what happened? I mean, you're a tough guy, you're a fighter, a commie! You wouldn't just cry for no reason… Did somebody hurt you?"

"No, only myself. I cannot be around people, sometimes, Alfred. It's not that I don't want to be, I do! I just can't."

Alfred looked at him quizzically. "Why? If you want to be, why can't you?"

"It's.. hard to explain."

"So try me. I'm a pretty smart dude."

Ivan looked at America, his eyes grateful. "Thank you, Alfred. Well, I will try my best to explain, for you, then." He looked down at his cup, playing with his fingers around the rim. "Well, whenever I'm alone, if I think about somebody else, I want to be friends with them. I've been lonely for so long, Alfred. I have nobody left anymore. Nobody to call me Vanya. But when I try to make friends, I just end up scaring everybody away! I'm not trying to be frightening, it's just, something that happens inside me. There's another version of me, inside my head. He's the old me, and he's bloodthirsty. He wants me to hurt people, he wants me to tribute him in blood, in broken bones, in torn skin. I don't want to listen to him, but he doesn't leave me alone. He just.. he just.. he.." Ivan broke down, then.

Worried, Alfred took his tea from him, and set them both on the bedside table. Hesitantly, he reached out to the other nation, wrapping his arms around him, as he cried. He had no words.

_There, you have him where you want him. He's vulnerable, he thinks you're upset. Now's your chance. Hurt him_

_ Nyet._

_ Da. Do it now, Vanya. Do it._

_ Nyet! I won't do it!_

_ You have to. If you don't hurt him soon, it'll drive you insane. You have to do it. Scratch his eyes from his skull. Break his arms with your pipe. Then, when he's crying on the ground, take his dignity from him. Then kill him._

_ Nyet! Nyet! _ "NYEEEET! Russia exploded upwards, and began pacing. Alfred eyed him apprehensively. "I don't want to, but I have to. Yes, yes I know I do, you don't have to remind me. How should I start it? His arms? No, his legs. Yes, then he can't run away, and he'll beg on the floor. I love it when the beg."

Alfred stood, afraid. Russia turned on him. He reached into his jacket, pulling out his pipe.

As America tried to bolt, Ivan struck at him with his pipe, hitting him behind the knee. Alfred's leg buckled, and he fell to the ground. He rolled over, to look up into the now murderous eyes of Ivan.

"No, no…."


	7. Chapter 7

As Ivan stared down at the American, he felt a calming serenity overcome him. This was how he was meant to be. His pipe swung down again, contacting with Alfred's elbow. Russia heard the satisfying crack, and the wounded howl. Quickly he raced to the door, and locked the chain in place.

"There, now nobody will interrupt us, moĭ krasivyĭ Amerikanskiĭ. I have you all to myself. I really do like you, you know. You're a beautiful man. But you shouldn't have screamed. Others may hear you, and get worried. And if thy come to try and help you, I'll have to kill them, too. And we don't want that, do we?"

Alfred shook his head silently, suppressing a whimper. Why was he surprised? This was just what Russia did. Why had he fooled himself into thinking he could be friends with him?

Ivan stepped slowly towards America. "Now, I'm not going to break any more of your bones, or make you bleed until I'm done with you. I want you to enjoy it as much as I will. You should be grateful, because I enjoy your pain. I'm being nice, because I like you." He bent down t run his fingers through Alfred's hair. "I really like you."

_Nyet, nyet, _said the voice from the back of his head. _Leave Alfred alone, he didn't do anything. He's my friend._

_ Friend? He's not your friend, _replied Russia._ I'm your friend. I'm your only friend. I'm protecting you from all the other countries. You have enough scars on your body, and it's time we gave some back._

_ Nyet, _said the fading voice.

Russia looked at America, smirking now. He picked him up as easily as if he were a puppy, and threw him on the bed, whimpering in pain.

"Now, lie still and relax. Don't make this more painful for yourself than it has to be." Alfred could only let out a small whine in response. However, he refused to cry.

The huge Russian layed down on top of America, between his legs, and kissed him. Alfred did not kiss back.

"Now, now," said Ivan scoldingly, "kiss me back, or I'll have to hurt you more. I don't want to do that."

This time, hen Russia pressed his lips to the American's, Alfred forced himself to return the act.

"Much better. You see how much easier it is when you co-operate?" Next, he reached down, and undid Alfred's buckle, pulling his pants off, and discarding them. Ivan ran his finger along Alfred's thigh. Alfred forced back his shudder of revulsion.

Soon, Russia's coat and pants joined the American's clothing.

Alfred closed his eyes.

_Nyet, he doesn't deserve this, _said the voice.

_Da,_ he replied, hitching Alfred's legs over his shoulders.

_Don't!_ said the voice, stronger now. _I don't want to hurt him! I'm sick of having nobody for company but you! Let him go!_

_ You will watch me rape him, and you will enjoy it. Then, together, we will destroy his already broken body. You will enjoy it!_

_ Nyet!_ He screamed hysterically._ Nyet, nyet, nyet! I will never help you again! You've been in charge of me for centuries, but no more! I'm done with you! Get out of my body, and out of my mind! I hate you! Alfred is my friend! I love him! Leave him alone! _With a final burst of strength, Ivan forced his darker self down, suffocating him with silence. When at last he could hear the voice no more, he set America's legs back down, and stuffed them messily into his pants, much to the confusion of Alfred.

Then, crying, he dressed himself, and screamed for help as he left the room, propping the door open. He ran down the hall, putting as much distance between himself and America as he could. The door to the elevator closed just as he saw Japan, China, and France running towards America's room.


	8. Chapter 8

Ivan never slept much, but that nigh his body refused to allow any sleep whatsoever. He spent the entire night worrying over America's fate, but not daring to call nearby hospitals, or visit his room, for fear of the others finding out, or Alfred being angry. Instead, he lay, silently, looking up at his ceiling until the first rays of daytime ushered themselves through his open window. Then he sat up. He brushed his hair, and changed his clothes, but didn't bother to shower as he usually did.

Russia took the stairs to the main floor, so that he wouldn't have to run into anyone in the elevator. He ordered a black tea from the kiosk downstairs, and sat down to drink it alone at a table near the window, watching the suns rays slowly creep over the streets, waking up the city. The other nations went by the same kiosk, mostly ordering coffee, with a few other tea drinkers.

When England ordered his tea, with milk and sugar, he glanced in Russia's direction. He gave him a funny stare, and looked like he wanted to come over to talk to Russia. But Ivan must have looked exceptionally scary this morning, with no sleep or shower, because England seemed to think better of it, and walked away, still gazing curiously at the pale-haired man sitting alone at a table.

Ivan sat like he was, barely moving until it was time for the meeting. He hadn't seen Alfred all morning and didn't expect to see him for the rest of the day either. He sat through the meeting, unaware of what was happening; it was the last day anyways.

Afterwards, he wandered up to his room, changed clothes, and went to the Russian bar he had seen earlier in the week. He ordered four full bottles of vodka, sat alone, and drank himself into the night.

Alfred had a painful night. He couldn't remember much after his leg breaking, it was too painful, and that was the only thing he could recall. He vaguely remembered Russia de-clothing him, but he didn't know if anything had happened. Then he remembered a searing pain as his broken leg was shoved painfully back into his pants, and he was confused as Russia , yelling for help. Why did he need help? He wasn't the one with a broken leg...

The next thing he remembered was France freaking out, and refusing to call an ambulance. He thought it would take too long. So he, Japan, and China lifted him up to carry him down to France's car and drive him home, and Alfred blacked out.

He woke up as they were bringing him into the hospital, and blearily remembered being layed on a bed. He slept again. He didn't awake until there was a cast on his leg. He could feel some sort of drug working though his body, and he had trouble forming thoughts. He gave up and went to sleep again.

He finally woke up fully early in the morning of the next day, when the sun's rays were first piercing the darkness. He watched as the streets were slowly lit up, and the birds began to flit past his window. He was released later that day, once the drugs wore off and he could think straight again.

America went straight back to the hotel, past the meeting, up to his room. He slept until the next day, when he had to catch his plane. He said goodbye to some of the other nations on his way out, who had later flights.

At the airport, he got through and went home, fully intending to never speak with Russia again. At the gate to his plane, there was some sort of commotion at the other side of the terminal. A tall man in a long tan coat seemed to be arguing with one of the gate guards. He staggered slightly. He was drunk. _What an idiot, _thought Alfred. _Coming to the airport drunk, who the hell do you think you are? Nobody's going to let you through. _Alfred turned away, and went though his gate.


End file.
